CH- 35
CH- 35
Mireille’s POV
They think I’m just another student.
Pretty. Obedient. Harmless.
Oh, how deliciously wrong they are.
They forget that masks at Blackthorn aren’t costumes—they’re weapons. Sharp, polished, and designed to cut when you least expect it. And mine?
Flawless.
Aria’s absence has created a vacuum—a gaping hole in the fabric of this place where her bond-scent still lingers like a ghost no one can exorcise. It clings to the halls, faint but unmistakable. In the Ritual Room, it’s stronger—like an echo of something wild and untamed. Even Lorien feels heavier without her, his usual arrogance tinged with restlessness. And Sebastian… well, he’s practically drowning in longing, though he’d never admit it aloud.
The others—they’re starving for her return. Starving for the chaos she brings, the fire she lights under their carefully constructed order. But me?
I’m not starving.
I’m watching.
Learning.
Preparing.
Because while Aria’s off chasing shadows and sigils, seduced by secrets too dangerous for even her to handle, I’ve started my own game. And let me make one thing clear:
My game isn’t about romance.
It’s about power.
It starts with Cassian.
Barely seventeen, all soft blonde curls and fangs too small to be taken seriously. He looks more like a cherub than a predator, but don’t let that fool you—he’s eager. So painfully eager. Eager to prove himself, eager to belong, eager to please anyone who’ll give him the time of day.
He thinks I chose him because he’s pretty.
He’s wrong.
I chose him because he listens. Because he’s malleable. Because his mother sits on the Council, her fingers dipped deep into every pot of influence within these walls.
And because he won’t ask questions—not until it’s far too late.
I take him to the Ritual Room.
Not for training.
For filming.
The room is dim, lit only by flickering candles scattered across the floor in uneven patterns. Shadows stretch and twist along the walls, making the space feel alive, breathing with us—or maybe against us. The air smells of ash and sweat, remnants of rituals past clinging stubbornly to the stone.
Cassian kneels at the center of the circle, hands clasped tightly behind his back, head bowed low as if offering himself up as some kind of sacrifice. His chest rises and falls rapidly, betraying the nervous energy thrumming beneath his skin. Trial runes mark his torso, crude and raw, each one pulsing faintly with the magic they’ve absorbed during his initiation trials.
I circle him slowly, deliberately, letting the candlelight catch the glint of leather wrapped around his throat—a collar I insisted on, though he didn’t argue. Didn’t even hesitate. That alone tells me everything I need to know about him.
“Are you ready?” I purr, my voice sweet enough to rot teeth, sharp enough to draw blood.
“Yes, Miss Mireille,” he breathes, his voice trembling but obedient.
Good boy.
I step into the circle with him, closing the distance until our bodies nearly touch.
My fingertips graze his chest as I trace a sigil there—not my sigil, but a mimic of Aria’s. A perfect copy, drawn in red ink layered thick with illusion. It shimmers faintly under the candlelight, almost alive, feeding off the tension crackling between us.
Cassian shivers, whether from fear or anticipation, I can’t tell—and honestly, I don’t care.
I lean closer, my lips brushing against his ear as I whisper words meant to ignite rebellion in anyone who hears them:
“This is what they’re afraid of.”
My voice drops lower, colder, sharper.
“Unbonded girls learning to take what’s theirs.”
I press my palm flat over the sigil, feeling its heat sear through my skin, branding him with something that will never truly belong to him.
“Without permission.”
I pull back just enough to meet his wide, glazed eyes, my smile razor-thin and dripping venom.
“Without needing anyone’s mark but their own.”
The camera floats in the air, enchanted and hidden.
No one sees it.
Yet.
But they will.
Once I send the footage to the Council.
Let them see what happens when their perfect little system starts to crack.
Cassian comes without being touched.
Not from pleasure.
From submission.
And when it’s over, I kiss his forehead and dismiss him like a servant.
He leaves with shaking legs and glowing eyes.
Later that night, I upload the footage to a private line.
Encrypted.
Anonymous.
It will reach the Council by sunrise.
Let them choke on it.
Let them panic.
By midnight, I receive a response.
A letter burned into red wax.
No signature.
Just a single line:
“If Aria binds a third, the Throne returns.
Are you ready?”
I stare at the note, heart pounding.
They know.
Not just about my ritual.
Not just about the sigil copying.
But about her.
About what she’s doing—wherever she is.
And about what she’s becoming.
I think about the mirror I’ve been hiding in my quarters—the one that doesn’t reflect properly anymore.
Sometimes, when I pass it, I see her.
Not Aria.
The other her.
The Queen. The First.
The one with the crown made of bone and flame.
She smiles when she sees me.
As if we share a secret.
As if she’s waiting for me, too.
The wax-sealed letter burns in my hand—until there's nothing left but ash and a whisper.
But it's not the letter that haunts me.
It’s the mirror.
I cross the room to it slowly.
My reflection blinks too late.
And when it finally moves—it isn’t me at all.
It’s her.
The First Queen.
She smiles.
Then she opens her mouth—and my own voice echoes back at me, laced with something ancient and wrong:
“If Aria won’t take the throne…
I will.”